Diary - Entry 11
Back and forth they would go, sometimes my mother would leave, sometimes my father would leave. At some point in time, someone has to say "STOP". That someone was my grandparents on my mothers side. They were realativly normal, when you consider all that we had been through up to this point. We went to live with them and attended Lamar Elementary in Lamar, Missouri. Those were some of the best times.
We went to school on a regular basis, but Todd found it increasingly difficult to socialize because he stuttered so badly by this time and he was painfully shy. He did not stutter with me, when we were alone, only when the outside world interferred. My mother was rarely 'home', as she had taken a job at the local country club as a bartender and her social like was such that she sometimes didn't bother coming home at all. She was always done up in her mini skirts, boots and hairpieces piled high. Things ran much smoother when she was not in the picture.
Papaw was a rancher in Missouri. He had cattle, pigs, a stocked fishing pond, chickens and gardens. He taught me to heard and cut cattle, slaughter pigs and catch fish. Todd, bless his heart, did not share my enthusiasm for such sports. We took him fishing and when he would catch something, he would turn to Papaw and beg him to put the fish back, when we killed, drained and gutted a pig. . .he would vomit. He just could not stand to be cruel to anything. My own son, who is now ten, reminds me alot of Todd in those ways. He won't eat meat, he cannot stand any kind of cruelty (he even makes me catch bugs and put them out of harms way!) and has a bleeding heart for anything homeless or in need of adoption.
Papaw understood Todd as well and never made fun of him, never undermined his sensitivity and he was always there with a hug. He was a big man over 6'2 and looked like the rest of his brothers and sisters. . .a large family of 10 that had called Kosciusco, Mississippi home. Mamaw was a hairdresser and nurse. She, like my grandfather put us first for a change. Those were some of the happiest times, but they were not to last. . .because my mother, as usual. . .had to screw everything up.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Your Cheating Heart. . .
Diary - Entry 10
When one nightmare is not enough, why not have two or three and involve the other side of the family.
Another memory of the less than stellar performance of my parents, included the fact that my mother had taken (supposedly) a job at night at the local hospital as a receptionist (oh she received alright). There were some nights when she did not come home, but then, there were nights when my father failed to show up, as well.
Anyway, this particular night, was like many others. . . rather than have the common sense to leave us asleep and have someone come over, he bundled us, into the car and we all went looking for her in the middle of the night, with us in the back seat. My father deposited us at the Coachman Inn and called Mamaw McDaniel. She came and stayed with us. She was so mad at my dad, and she didn't take crap off of anyone!
The next time I saw my mother, she had a black eye. . .it didn't keep her home long. Eventually my father made her quit and stay home at night with us . . .where she belonged.
Their fighting became worse, to the point that furniture was broken, they tried to stab each other, and so on.
When one nightmare is not enough, why not have two or three and involve the other side of the family.
Another memory of the less than stellar performance of my parents, included the fact that my mother had taken (supposedly) a job at night at the local hospital as a receptionist (oh she received alright). There were some nights when she did not come home, but then, there were nights when my father failed to show up, as well.
Anyway, this particular night, was like many others. . . rather than have the common sense to leave us asleep and have someone come over, he bundled us, into the car and we all went looking for her in the middle of the night, with us in the back seat. My father deposited us at the Coachman Inn and called Mamaw McDaniel. She came and stayed with us. She was so mad at my dad, and she didn't take crap off of anyone!
The next time I saw my mother, she had a black eye. . .it didn't keep her home long. Eventually my father made her quit and stay home at night with us . . .where she belonged.
Their fighting became worse, to the point that furniture was broken, they tried to stab each other, and so on.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Lords House - As We Lived It. . .!
Diary - Entry 9
My mood is very dark (when is it not these days), with all the commercials on the television it brought to mind one christmas that as usual, I will never forget. It was during one of the times we stayed with Memoo and Papaw. I got a "Kerry" doll, (remember, the one that you pushed in her belly button and her hair grew, then turned the knob on the back and it got short again), you and Vic got tractors with tiny discs. We were sitting in the livingroom playing on the floor, when you said you missed mommy, then Vic said it and I said be quiet.
My grandfather, the Reverand Lonnie McFarland. . . closed his bible, got up from his recliner and said "your mother is a whore and a slut, I have told you never to speak her name in this house, which is dedicated to the Lord!"
He layed his bible down gently, reached over and grabbed Todd and Vic up by there arms, stripped both of them naked and threw them outside into the snow, all the time I was clutching my doll, screaming and crying for him to stop . . . "that they didn't mean it". He slapped me so hard with the bible he had picked back up, I cut my lip open and he made me stand and watch them shivering in the snow. They started wetting themselves and shaking.
At some point, my grandmother said, "Lonnie, that's enough" and she brought the boys back inside, put them in pajamas and we all went to bed.
Under normal circumstances, people would think this is some type of horror story, but when you lived it daily, it some how became routine and you learned to keep your thoughts to yourself, we spoke only to one another about our parents, when we were sure that we were completely alone, then we would talk, hug and whisper our secrets.
Church was the order of the day. We had no television, we listened to the Wynne News everyday and "christian" music the rest of the time. Every day the door was open, we were in it. Wednesdays and twice on Sundays. This doesn't seem like alot of time, but when you are brought up Pentacostel and you see people speaking in tungs, running up and down the aisle taking there clothes off. . .and the service would get to be 4 and 5 hours long. . . it was exhausting, scary and as there was no 'Sunday school', us McFarland kids where right up in the front pew. . . witnessing it all. I hated it, every time we walked through that door I was filled with terror, dread and a prayer that nothing crazy would scare Todd and Vic.
His Revivals were worse. . .they were the epitome of all his sermons, laying on hands, speaking in tungs, twisting about, people simply could not get enough of him. That is one of the reasons I never saw the movie
"The Apostle", my grandfather could have been its role model. As pius as he was on the pulpit, his gross
impropriety was blatant at home.
My mood is very dark (when is it not these days), with all the commercials on the television it brought to mind one christmas that as usual, I will never forget. It was during one of the times we stayed with Memoo and Papaw. I got a "Kerry" doll, (remember, the one that you pushed in her belly button and her hair grew, then turned the knob on the back and it got short again), you and Vic got tractors with tiny discs. We were sitting in the livingroom playing on the floor, when you said you missed mommy, then Vic said it and I said be quiet.
My grandfather, the Reverand Lonnie McFarland. . . closed his bible, got up from his recliner and said "your mother is a whore and a slut, I have told you never to speak her name in this house, which is dedicated to the Lord!"
He layed his bible down gently, reached over and grabbed Todd and Vic up by there arms, stripped both of them naked and threw them outside into the snow, all the time I was clutching my doll, screaming and crying for him to stop . . . "that they didn't mean it". He slapped me so hard with the bible he had picked back up, I cut my lip open and he made me stand and watch them shivering in the snow. They started wetting themselves and shaking.
At some point, my grandmother said, "Lonnie, that's enough" and she brought the boys back inside, put them in pajamas and we all went to bed.
Under normal circumstances, people would think this is some type of horror story, but when you lived it daily, it some how became routine and you learned to keep your thoughts to yourself, we spoke only to one another about our parents, when we were sure that we were completely alone, then we would talk, hug and whisper our secrets.
Church was the order of the day. We had no television, we listened to the Wynne News everyday and "christian" music the rest of the time. Every day the door was open, we were in it. Wednesdays and twice on Sundays. This doesn't seem like alot of time, but when you are brought up Pentacostel and you see people speaking in tungs, running up and down the aisle taking there clothes off. . .and the service would get to be 4 and 5 hours long. . . it was exhausting, scary and as there was no 'Sunday school', us McFarland kids where right up in the front pew. . . witnessing it all. I hated it, every time we walked through that door I was filled with terror, dread and a prayer that nothing crazy would scare Todd and Vic.
His Revivals were worse. . .they were the epitome of all his sermons, laying on hands, speaking in tungs, twisting about, people simply could not get enough of him. That is one of the reasons I never saw the movie
"The Apostle", my grandfather could have been its role model. As pius as he was on the pulpit, his gross
impropriety was blatant at home.
Monday, November 30, 2009
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead. . .
Diary - Entry 8
I think that is a line from a country music song, but apparently it applies to the current situation as I am, once again, up in the middle of the night when the rest of the house is quite.
I was laying in bed, thinking about when we where young. Little really. Before Vic was born, when it was just you and me, before the stuttering began. I spent the better part of 30 years trying to forget those nights when they would fight, like wild dogs. I always see you face, frozen. When you didn't come back from the bathroom and I went to get you, you just stared. They did not even know we were there. You had wet yourself. I brought you back to the bedroom, changed you clothes and put you into my bed. You were shaking, crying and I sang you to sleep.
Then it reminded me of the time we at the Memphis airport. When dad caught up with mom and us trying to leave. . . they slugged it out until he knocked her out and I just started screaming. Dad picked up you under one arm and Vic under the other and took off down the escalator. A young man in the AirForce and his mother had witnessed it, they stayed with me until mother came around. Every time I fly out of the airport, I see that scene.
I think out of all the memories I have, the worst was the night in Michigan. We had been riding out in the street, it was cold, there was snow on the ground. We did not know that dad had rented a house down the street, he had been watching us and when the moment presented itself, he snatched us all off our bikes and we went down to his house. It did not take long for mother to figure it out, because dad called her. They were always tormenting one another like that. She came walking up the sidewalk, while dad hid behind the bushes with a giant shovel. She never saw it coming. He hit her in the back of the head with such force, it knocked her wig off (this was the seventies afterall) and all we could see was her lying on the ground bleeding and her wig off to the side in the snow. Dad turned off all the lights in the house and we all went to the back of the house, laying on the bed as we listened for the police.
It is these precious moments, that make life worth living and childhood a nightmare.
I think that is a line from a country music song, but apparently it applies to the current situation as I am, once again, up in the middle of the night when the rest of the house is quite.
I was laying in bed, thinking about when we where young. Little really. Before Vic was born, when it was just you and me, before the stuttering began. I spent the better part of 30 years trying to forget those nights when they would fight, like wild dogs. I always see you face, frozen. When you didn't come back from the bathroom and I went to get you, you just stared. They did not even know we were there. You had wet yourself. I brought you back to the bedroom, changed you clothes and put you into my bed. You were shaking, crying and I sang you to sleep.
Then it reminded me of the time we at the Memphis airport. When dad caught up with mom and us trying to leave. . . they slugged it out until he knocked her out and I just started screaming. Dad picked up you under one arm and Vic under the other and took off down the escalator. A young man in the AirForce and his mother had witnessed it, they stayed with me until mother came around. Every time I fly out of the airport, I see that scene.
I think out of all the memories I have, the worst was the night in Michigan. We had been riding out in the street, it was cold, there was snow on the ground. We did not know that dad had rented a house down the street, he had been watching us and when the moment presented itself, he snatched us all off our bikes and we went down to his house. It did not take long for mother to figure it out, because dad called her. They were always tormenting one another like that. She came walking up the sidewalk, while dad hid behind the bushes with a giant shovel. She never saw it coming. He hit her in the back of the head with such force, it knocked her wig off (this was the seventies afterall) and all we could see was her lying on the ground bleeding and her wig off to the side in the snow. Dad turned off all the lights in the house and we all went to the back of the house, laying on the bed as we listened for the police.
It is these precious moments, that make life worth living and childhood a nightmare.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
When People Say "And One To Grow On"
Diary - Entry 7
Happy Birthday, little man! I miss you. I was going to lay the wreath today, but it is pouring down rain, cold and I felt you would understand about the two hour drive. I don't know what you headstone will look like when it is finished, I was not privy to that information either. I am sure it will be just as big and grotesque as our mothers. . .afterall, it's the McFarland way to have everything the big and best.
It has been a strange few days. . . it was my first birthday and Thanksgiving without you. It was my first day back to work Friday after being gone for nearly nearly 3 weeks. Everyone was very sweet, thay gave me cards, my boss gave me my birthday presents (she went overboard) and she gave me one for you as well, which I thought was particularly befitting the occassion, it was from the Willow Tree collection of wood carvings. It was a woman, holding some things and it was titled "Remember Me".
Several of my clients came in to see me, they gave me hugs, prayers and one of them left a bouquet of flowers tied to my car and a note that said "I are so very sorry for your loss" it was unsigned. So apparently my boss had told everyone about you. . .I thankfully was spared any details that she might have shared about our "odd and very off" family.
It is hard for me to reconcile the fact that you are not here. The constant being that you have always been, the protectiveness that we have always shared, the secrets that we kept for one another. Some days, I cannot get out of bed and all I do is stare at the wall or ceiling, watching the fan go round and round, seemingly devoid of emotion, other days, the tears don't stop the reality that your gone and the void that was left by your passing slid into and shares the one left by "him" all those years ago. Now it's just that much bigger, deeper and painful. I don't believe that time heals all wounds, grief will lessen in time and all that other bullshit that people say.
I don't know which is worse, the pain of the living as we are left behind to pick up the pieces of a broken portion of our life (which you and I have done so many times), or the agony of waiting for it all to be over so that the life you should have had will be waiting for you on the otherside. I have to believe that for our sake, growing up the way we did, the things we saw, the things that were done to us. . . Fate, Karma, Past Life Regression. . .whatever you choose to call it, the end result is the same. The lives of our souls are played out over and over again, until we get it right. The voids of grief and longing do not coincide with one another any longer and we are, who we were meant to be, not what we where made into and our souls are completed by those that were made for us.
Happy Birthday, little man! I miss you. I was going to lay the wreath today, but it is pouring down rain, cold and I felt you would understand about the two hour drive. I don't know what you headstone will look like when it is finished, I was not privy to that information either. I am sure it will be just as big and grotesque as our mothers. . .afterall, it's the McFarland way to have everything the big and best.
It has been a strange few days. . . it was my first birthday and Thanksgiving without you. It was my first day back to work Friday after being gone for nearly nearly 3 weeks. Everyone was very sweet, thay gave me cards, my boss gave me my birthday presents (she went overboard) and she gave me one for you as well, which I thought was particularly befitting the occassion, it was from the Willow Tree collection of wood carvings. It was a woman, holding some things and it was titled "Remember Me".
Several of my clients came in to see me, they gave me hugs, prayers and one of them left a bouquet of flowers tied to my car and a note that said "I are so very sorry for your loss" it was unsigned. So apparently my boss had told everyone about you. . .I thankfully was spared any details that she might have shared about our "odd and very off" family.
It is hard for me to reconcile the fact that you are not here. The constant being that you have always been, the protectiveness that we have always shared, the secrets that we kept for one another. Some days, I cannot get out of bed and all I do is stare at the wall or ceiling, watching the fan go round and round, seemingly devoid of emotion, other days, the tears don't stop the reality that your gone and the void that was left by your passing slid into and shares the one left by "him" all those years ago. Now it's just that much bigger, deeper and painful. I don't believe that time heals all wounds, grief will lessen in time and all that other bullshit that people say.
I don't know which is worse, the pain of the living as we are left behind to pick up the pieces of a broken portion of our life (which you and I have done so many times), or the agony of waiting for it all to be over so that the life you should have had will be waiting for you on the otherside. I have to believe that for our sake, growing up the way we did, the things we saw, the things that were done to us. . . Fate, Karma, Past Life Regression. . .whatever you choose to call it, the end result is the same. The lives of our souls are played out over and over again, until we get it right. The voids of grief and longing do not coincide with one another any longer and we are, who we were meant to be, not what we where made into and our souls are completed by those that were made for us.
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